Wilco

Like a cloud his fingers explode
On the typewriter ribbon, the shadow grows
His hearts in a bowl behind the bank
And every evening when he get home
To make his supper and eat it alone
His black shirt cries
While his shoes get cold
It's just a dream he keeps having
And it doesn't seem to mean anything
And it doesn't seem to mean anything
One summer, a suicide
Another autumn, a travelers guide
He hits snooze twice before he dies
And every evening when he get home
To make his supper and eat it alone